‘They’re juniper berries,’ she said.
Marc seemed thrilled with this news.
‘Oh my God, I’m gifted. There were juniper bushes where I was. These super rare ones that I was asked to help fund a protection programme for.’
‘Did you?’ asked Christa, trying to get her head around what he was saying. ‘Fund the bushes?’
‘Of course. I love gin,’ he said and then he laughed.
For a moment she thought about telling him her plans to cook for others with his food but how could she say it without sounding like a thief or as though she was judging him for having so much more than others. She would tell him, she thought, eventually, when she found the right time. She needed to think about it, she told herself. But deep inside, she knew she was avoiding it because he’d probably think she was some sad do-gooder who was trying to make him feel guilty about having so much. Who was she to think she could solve homelessness and world hunger, like a foodie Bob Geldof?
She opened the oven and turned the meat, making sure she was scraping up all the bits caught on the pan.
‘That smells incredible,’ he said. Peering into the pan. ‘Is it for dinner?’
‘No, it’s stock for soup.’ She shoved the pan back in and closed the door and her phone rang.
She picked it up and answered, ‘Zane, how are you? Can you hold a minute?’
She put her hand over the receiver. ‘Sorry, I have to take this.’ She took the phone and walked outside, shocked at how cold the air was and wishing she had her coat but Marc was inside the kitchen now. He was looking inside the refrigerator, which was his right, but she wished he would go away at least until she had spoken to Zane.
‘Hi, Zane, I’m Christa. Petey from the market gave me your details. He said you might be looking for volunteers?’
‘Yes, we are actually. What sort of help are you hoping to give?’ Zane asked.
‘I’m a chef, so I can cook some of the food, like soups or stews and I can help in the van a few nights for the next few weeks. I’m not in York for long but I was helping homeless people in London and I want to support the people of York.’
‘That sounds incredible, Christa. Do you want to come down tonight and see what we do? Say nine o’clock?’
‘Yes! I would love to,’ she said seeing Marc now eating the fudge from the refrigerator.
‘I’ll text you the address to this phone number and remember to dress for warmth. Those night winds can be deadly.’
Christa knew this wasn’t just a figure of speech. The cold air would actually give people hypothermia and she had heard of dead bodies being discovered in parks and on benches during very brutal winters.
She shoved her phone in her pocket and went back into the warm kitchen.
‘Everything okay?’ asked Marc.
‘Fine, I will be heading out after dinner tonight, if that’s okay with you. I don’t think you need me once the boys are all sorted and in bed.’
Marc’s eyes looked away from her and seemed to settle on something outside.
‘That’s fine. I hope you have a nice time.’ His jaw was set now and Christa knew he wasn’t happy with something. His mood had changed.
‘It’s professional not personal,’ she said. Though she knew she didn’t need to justify it, she wanted to.
‘That’s fine. You’re an adult; you can do what you like.’ His hands were in the pockets of his jeans now. ‘I came down to ask you if you can please arrange a cake for Adam. It’s his birthday tomorrow. He loves chocolate and drama, so if you can work with that brief, it would mean a lot to him.’
Christa laughed. ‘Cakes, chocolate and drama are my specialty. Consider it done,’ she said.
Marc walked to the door of the kitchen. ‘I ate some of the fudge also – hope that’s okay. Did you make it?’
Christa smiled at him. ‘I bought it for everyone from the market actually. I was going to share it after dinner tonight with coffee.’
Marc nodded. ‘It was okay. I think I ate one that was sour. Tasted like my grandmother’s rhubarb strudel, one of my most hated desserts as a kid.’
‘That’s exactly what the pink one is. It’s very hard to pick, according to the man who sold me the fudge. You picked rhubarb and the juniper berries – you must have the nose for it after all.’
